


took me home

by nymja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr fills, drabbles/ficlet collection, spoilers for all of S8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-02-15 20:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18676561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: “What are you doing here?!” Gendry demands.“What do you think?” Arya counters.“I think you’re ruining my wedding!”--short tumblr fills for gendry/aryarequest stuff!





	1. the weapon

He has no idea what time it is, only that it’s getting late. Gendry sits at one of the forge’s working tables, taking one of the cleaner rags and running it over the handle. It’s a stupid thing to do, he knows. A weapon like this doesn’t work better with cleaning. But he’s got nerves, and this lets him stop thinking about the wights, now that his attention’s not fixed on arming all of Winterfell.

He’d started on Arya’s weapon as soon as she’d left, much to the confusion of his fellow smiths. Sure, he did what he had to do to finish what was left in the forge, so that dragonglass wouldn’t go to waste, but when he stopped to put all his effort into one weapon that was only useful to one person, he had gotten looks.

“The fuck’s that?” Ben Snow had asked, face scrunched in confusion.

“Important,” had been his only answer.

He’d been careful with it. There had been something in him that warmed when Arya trusted him, and only him, with its design. Even after she’d doubted his axes for the others.

Gendry smiles at that. Figures he won that argument.

It’s balanced, the blades at its ends sharpened and the spot where it breaks apart well-fitted. It’s one of his better, if not his best, work. When he’s finished cleaning it, he holds it up, giving it an experimental twirl with a hand. It’s light, perfect for someone small and quick and dangerous.

...she’s a lot different than he remembers. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure what to do with it. He’s happy, he knows, to see her again. That she thought it worth her time to find him in the forge. That they’ve both lived enough to make it here, back to her home.

Gendry stands. He leaves the weapon on the table as he goes toward one of the barrels of water they keep around to stop overheating. He cups his hands, catching as much of it as he can, and splashes it on his face then moves up to rub the water over his head. He smells of sweat and soot. It normally wouldn’t bother him all that much, but he wants to give the weapon to Arya himself. Wants her to know, somehow, that it was important for him to make it for her.

...he wanted to see her use it like she used those daggers.

Gendry pulls his shirt off, wiping away as much grime as he can. And then he pulls his better, cleaner clothes out from underneath his bedroll. It’s stupid, he knows, to make himself presentable when there’s about to be the end of the world, but for some reason he can’t get her out of his head--the smirk, the eyebrow lift. There’s something different there, something Arya knew that Arry didn’t. It makes him nervous and excited all at once. If it’s going to be the last time he ever sees her, he wants to make a good impression. Let her know that there’s something different about him too.

Once he’s dressed, and the soot is cleared from his face, he looks at the weapon again. Made it exactly as she asked--spear blades on either end, detachable to be daggers. A break in the middle. He can think of at least four different ways to kill someone with it, and he suspects she knows a few more.

He feels a bit stupid, when he sits back down. Carefully, he finds some leathers and wraps it where he thinks her hands would go. It doesn’t add anything to the weapon’s purpose, but it might make it a bit more comfortable to hold. He wants this to be better than anything she’s owned.

Wants to show her that maybe he’s worth keeping around after all this. If they make it.

Gendry picks up one of those cloaks he’s seen all those Northerners wear. The fabric’s heavy and the fur tickles his nostrils, making him want to sneeze. But he’d be comfortable wearing it once he got used to it.

Gendry finally lifts up Arya’s spear. He has no idea what he’s about to say, only that he needs to say it. About how he never forgot her offer. That he didn’t bother to come to Winterfell until he heard those Boltons were out of it. That he was here now, willing to find something he didn’t have before.

Gendry rolls his shoulders and leaves the forge, hoping something good comes of it.


	2. stitches

****"What’re you waiting for?”

He takes a moment to look away from the gash on her forehead to send her a glare. “Your bloody forehead.”

“Looking at it’s not going to stitch it.”

Gendry’s frown deepens. He’s standing between her legs, her face is in his hands, and she decides she likes the feel of his calloused thumbs lightly scraping over the bones of her cheeks as he inspects her.

“Just. Give me a minute.” His eyes narrow, his head tilts.

The short laugh escapes her. “What, you nervous?”

The frown becomes a scowl, and that’s all the answer she needs. “What, why?”

“It’s just. It’s your  _face,_ Arya.”

“So?”

“So I’m not good with stitching!”

“I am.”

Both Arya and Gendry turn at the new voice. Sansa stands before them, her gaze cool but a small tilt to the corners of her lips. Arya watches, amused, as Gendry’s ears turn pink. 

“You are,” Arya agrees. 

Sansa smiles.  
Arya smiles back.

Her sister gingerly picks up the needle and thread from where it lays on the crate beside them. Gendry looks at her, then Arya, and his face screws up in a way Arya doesn’t recognize.

“What?” She asks, when he still hasn’t moved.

Gendry sends Sansa a quick glance, then steps forward. The hands he has on either side of her face tilt her head up, and he kisses her quickly on the lips before he practically flees.

Both Stark sisters watch him go with coolly raised eyebrows.

“He seems nice,” Sansa deadpans.

“He’s an idiot,” Arya says with affection.


	3. what's fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an attempt at a five sentence fic :'D thanks to jeeno2 for the first sentence!

"I thought you knew."

He rubs his thumb over her bare shoulder, looking up at the rafters of the room they’ve found themselves in. “Had an idea, but...” a shrug. “You were young, I didn’t think anything serious of it.”

She looks up from where her cheek’s pressed against his chest. “What makes you think I’m serious about it now?”

Gendry pushes away with wide eyes, trying to read her expression. He sighs when he sees a grin. “That’s not fair.”

Arya throws one of her legs over his, he tightens the hold he has around her shoulder.

“I don’t do anything fair.”


	4. a smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a five sentence meme!

"They know each other?"

Jon doesn’t look up from the report he’s reading.”They do.”

Tormund stares at Jon, then turns the stare to Jon’s sister and Gendry. He squints at them, the pair in a deep conversation neither man can hear. On the little one’s belt, there’s a pair of shining dragonglass daggers.

“He make those for her?”

Jon closes his eyes, realizing the conversation isn’t going to go away. “Seems like.”

“That’d make him her man. Or is it different in the South?”

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re not the South.”

Tormund grins, taking Jon’s lack of an answer for an agreement. “Lucky bastard.”

Jon glares, following Tormund’s gaze to see it landing on his sister. “What do you mean?” He says in a flat tone.

Tormund juts his chin out. “That one can smith.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then you’re a lucky bastard,” Tormund repeats, much slower. “If he’s got a woman, he’ll stay. If he stays, you get weapons whenever you want.” 

The wildling sighs, somewhat dreamily. “Good weapons.”

Jon looks back at his sister. Watches as Gendry watches her, smiling. She’s smiling, too.

“…weapons are useful,” he admits, after awhile.


	5. trot trot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS for 8x4 from now on!

“You killing someone, then?” 

Sandor doesn’t turn to face her, staring at the long road to King’s Landing. “Probably a couple someones, the way things are going.”

“Me too.”

“No shit.”

Their horses trot next to each other. Sandor’s hands grip the reins. Then he looks up at the sky and sighs. “I’m not babysitting you like last time. You’re on your fucking own.”

Arya sends him one raised eyebrow. 

They trot.

“And I’m not fucking feeding you either.”

She stares ahead. They trot some more.

“And if some raper or murderer’s coming at you, you got to kill him yourself.”

Trot.

“Because I’m not killing the cunt for you.”

Trot trot.

“And don’t think you’re fucking invincible after killing that ice fuck. From what I hear all it took was a bread knife. Any bitch can use a bread knife.”

Trot trot trot.

“…For fuck’s sake, say something.”

Arya shrugs.

Trot trot trot. Sandor grinds his teeth.

Then, he lets out a breath that sounds like a growl. “Going after that bitch queen, that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Not going to have some lovesick twat following us, are we?”

Arya’s face is a calm mask. “…no. No twats.”

He watches her. She, naturally, gives nothing away and he huffs. “Good on you. People like us, we don’t need that shit.”

“…people like us,” she agrees, not sounding like a cold bitch for once.

Sandor watches her, frowns. Then snaps the reins. “I can’t take any of this fucking trotting anymore.”

He moves ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Arya looks over her shoulder, back at Winterfell, before matching her speed to his.


	6. fits well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilers for 8x4!

“You’ve been quiet, lad.”

Gendry rolls his shoulders as Davos helps him into his new armor. It’s the most expensive thing he’s ever owned in his life, and it fits him well. That’s the difference, he supposes, in having something that was made for you versus something picked up in a Flea Bottom market or stolen from a clothesline.

When he doesn’t respond, Davos clears his throat and claps him on the back. “You’re all suited. Say the word and we march.”

Gendry  _likes_  the Stormlands--its oceans, its craggy rocks. It’s not the same as Dragonstone, where everything felt cold and dark. There’s birds, green trees. He’s only been served his favorite foods, been given his first horse. He could stay here, in his castle. In his bloody  _castle_. They even showed him the forge, so he could still do smithing if he’d like. It all fit so well.

Gendry tugs up one of the leather gauntlets on his arm. 

“Ready then?” Davos observes.

Gendry looks at him, and the smile he gives is sad, but not bitter.

“Need you to do something for me,” he finally says.

“And what’s that?”

Gendry decides to straighten his back, look very Lordly and all that. He only gets one shot at this, after all. 

“I want you to stay here.”

Davos chuckles. “Weren’t planning on going anywhere else.”

“I mean after the battle.”

“I do live here, you know.”

There’s a long pause, where Gendry stares and hopes he figures it out. After a moment, he does, because Davos is low-born like himself, Flea Bottom like himself, and that means he’s had to be smart in ways that matter.

Davos frowns. He looks more worried than disappointed. “You think you won’t come back from King’s Landing, is that it?”

Gendry swallows. He thinks this will end in one of two ways for him and--he  _hopes_ \--it will be the one he’s wanted for some time now. 

“I don’t even know which fork to use.”

“You’ll learn.”

Gendry shakes his head, “Too bullheaded.” He looks around the castle walls, probably for the last time. “This place will need someone useful in it, if it’s going to be any good.”

“That could be you,” Davos says, brows drawn. “You’ve earned it, three times over.”

He scratches his cheek. His armor fits him well. But there’s always someone who fit better. 

“Whatever happens,” he says, sounding nervous but feeling more sure about anything in his life. “I’m going to stay with my family.”

The Onion Knight remembers the feast at Winterfell. Remember who he went to find immediately after he was legitimized. He sighs. Young love makes fools of them all.

“How about,” he compromises, “I hold it until you get back?”

“Might be a long time.”

Davos shrugs. “Then it’ll be a long time.” He rests his right hand on Gendry’s shoulder, the one Stannis took from. “But this House  _is_ yours. And your children’s. And their children’s. You got a home to come back to, Gendry, I’ll make sure of it.”

Gendry smiles tightly. “Thank you.” Then he straightens his armor again. “Hopefully I got a home ahead of me, too.”


	7. stupid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning**! this chapter is speculative based on some GOT leaks running around for endgame. if that's not your boat, please skip!

****Her broken arm is cradled against her chest as she surveys the damage of King’s Landing from her place on top of fishing crates. Arya has become accustomed to battles, but there’s nothing that prepares anyone for the aftermath of it. Once the adrenaline has faded, the stink remains: burned flesh, blood, iron. Arya knows there is soot in her hair and clothing, that her eyes are red from the smoke. She had been buried, under some of the buildings. She had been buried for a long while.

There’s the sound of wood creaking, and she turns to watch Gendry pull himself up to sit on the crate beside her. He looks different but better, wearing armor with the Baratheon sigil on it. He has a cut near the top of his head, but it’s been stitched. He looks exhausted, but she sees the relief in his face when he looks at her, and it makes her smile despite how tired and defeated she feels.

“Couple people told me you didn’t make it out,” he says, and Arya knows how the news must have affected him by the thickness of his voice.

“Barely,” she agrees.

She’s still looking ahead when she feels his hand on her cheek. Arya turns into it, meeting his eyes. Gendry pauses for a second, as though to ask for permission, but when she doesn’t move he leans in and kisses her. It’s slow, and his other hand comes up to cup her face when her lips part and he deepens it.

After a moment, they pull away, though his hands stay on her face and her good arm holds on to one of his arm, thumb dancing across his wrist.

Gendry presses his forehead to hers. “I love you so much.”

She smiles at that, because how could she not? Someone still loves her, after all this. After what feels like the end of the world.

“I can’t stay.”

He meets her gaze. “I’d be an idiot to think you would.”

“Are you an idiot, then?”

“Always was.”

But he laughs, and it eases some of the pain in her chest.

“You don’t have to be my lady,” he says, after a moment. He still hasn’t moved his hands.

Arya sighs. “Gendry…”

“You want to go off, have adventures.”

Have adventures. He makes it sound so simple. “I need to go.”

“Then go,” his fingers fall. One hand rests on her thigh, the other covers her fingers with his. “Do what you need to do.”

Her brows raise. “Then what?”

“Then you got a place to stay, when you want it.”

“With you?”

“I’d hope so.”

She pulls back to see him, to gauge his expression. As always, Gendry only says what he means. It’s something she loves about him, in this world of masks and whispers. She thinks it’ll make him a good Lord. Her father had been a good Lord, afterall.

“And when you have a Lady?”

Gendry smiles, expression a little sad, a little strained. “Don’t need a lady.” He flexes his fingers, interlacing them together with hers.

“They’ll want you to have one. Baratheon needs heirs.”

“Don’t matter.”

“It  _does_ matter. And I don’t want you to wait. I might not come back.”

He shrugs. “Not up to you, I think.”

She shakes her head, not sure why her eyes are stinging. “Stupid.”

Gendry leans in to kiss her again. “Yeah, I know.”


	8. tableseat

He’s Lord now, but the second Arya walks in to Storm’s End she immediately takes the lead. She walks a few steps ahead of him, her thumbs hooked into the belted scabbard she wears. Her attention is on the space, heading turning from the ceilings, to the walls, to the animal heads and ornamental weapons hanging on them. 

Gendry follows, his hands folded behind his back, and he tries not to read four hundred things into every action she makes.

He just. Can’t believe she’s here, really. Even if she hasn’t said what for. He hopes he knows what it’s for.

“You like it here, then?” Her gloved hand drags along the hall’s main table. He feels stupid for having not washed it. Then wonders if you wash tables at all.

“It’s alright.” He clears his throat, adds unhelpfully: “Big.”

“That’s because it’s a castle.”

He winces. Stupid. “Got a couple falcons, I guess. What do you think you do with those?”

“If you can’t figure it out, someone will eat them.”

“Yeah. Guess there’s that.”

Gendry can only see the back of her head. It’s starting to worry him that she hasn’t turned around. Is she here because she’s happy? Sad? Fuck, he hopes she’s not in Storm’s End to kill anyone. He just got here.

“You, um. Want dinner?”

Arya turns to him then. She looks tired, like she’s seen some terrible things. Gendry has no doubt she has. All he wants to do is see her rest. He doesn’t think she’s rested since before they met at King’s Landing.

“Sure,” she says, and some of the nerves in his throat melt away.

\--

He doesn’t know when the kitchen staff is working or not, so he leads them down to where he knows one of the larders is. After a few minutes, he’s scrounged up enough food and started a fire that they can eat some soup and bread. The whole time, she watches him with an amused expression and he wonders if she’s making fun of him.

“What?” Gendry says with a slight roll of his eyes. “Don’t like soup anymore?”

“Soup’s fine.” 

“Well. Good, then. It’s what I made.” 

There aren’t any seats in the larder, and he doesn’t really want to bring her to the unwashed table again, so he undoes the fasten on his cloak and lays it down for them to sit on. It’s a nice cloak, lots of fur lining and something Davos had called velveteen. There’s little stags stitched into the hems. 

He puts the bowls down. Tears off some coarse bread. The kind with white flour hurts his stomach. Arya starts eating in silence, and Gendry watches her carefully. 

“What?” Arya asks, not even looking up from her food.

He can’t handle it anymore. “What’re you doing here, Arya?”

There’s a long silence. She stares at him, and her eyes are big and lips soft and it is  _exactly_ the same expression she wore when he proposed and she said no. Gendry tries to reassure himself that there’s nothing from him she can say no to, anymore, but it doesn’t help. 

Arya brings her hand to the inside of her cloak, and withdraws a piece of paper. She reaches over, grabs his hand that’s still got some soup on the fingers from the bread, and presses the paper in his palm.

“I need these,” she says.

Gendry opens them. The diagrams are truly terrible, and he’s still working on reading so he doesn’t know what some of the stuff at the bottom says, but he starts to put it together. Some daggers that are used for skinning, arrowheads. Basic weapons for everyday hunting. He frowns, handing the paper back.

“Anyone could make these.”

She stops his hand. Gendry stares for a moment at where she’s touching him. “I wanted them done right.”

Gendry’s face screws into a frown. “Storm’s End is a long way to come for some arrowheads.”

“I know. But I’ll need them replaced eventually.”

“I’m not even a smith anymore.”

“And I’m not a lady.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Arya stares at him, and there’s that little smirk she makes when he’s not getting something. Gendry pauses. Then his heart feels like it’s about to burst from his chest.

“Wait-!”

“Stupid bull,” she says with a shake of her head. Arya leans forward, kisses him while he’s still trying to think, and then stands. “Show me where the archery targets are.”

He’s still sitting on the floor when he realizes she’s halfway up the stairs. Then he scrambles, shaking his cloak free from breadcrumbs as he runs after her.

“Arya, wait-”

Gendry can’t bloody show her where things are if she’s always ahead of him, can he?


	9. scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa  
> (i hated that finale)

It’s been three years since anyone’s heard from Arya Stark. By raven, at least. But everyone knows that’s not the case for Gendry. He hears about her a different way.

 _And my sister’s health? Is she well?_ Sansa will tack on to the end of every raven.

And he’ll reply, once he’s learned to read. A ledger of balances.  _Jagged scar on my left side. Worried about it for awhile, but then a few months later got a burn mark on my forearm. Not serious, I don’t think._

And when it’s major, when he’s scared beyond being able to breathe right, he’ll ask Bran.  _Scar over my sternum–what’s happened?_

And he replies, almost always the same to the letter:  _What was meant to. Do not worry._

But, the thing is, he can’t stop worrying. There’s almost a new scar every week. Some that are thread-thin, like from a shallow cut. Others that are deep and purple before fading to pink. Every single one scares the shit out of him. Every single time.

When can’t do anything but work himself into an anxious mess, he tries to calm his mind by making stories about them. That rope burn is probably from changing the rigging on a ship. The thin scar through his eyebrow is a punch fighting some pirate king. Gendry isn’t fool enough to believe they’re true, but it makes him feel better. He has to feel better.

“You should consider marriage, lad. Many people can be happy without their…” Davos stops, sighs. “Lots of people are. Nobles, smallfolk. Widowers.”

But he’s not like a widower. He knows that for true. And there isn’t any moving on from Arya Stark. He knows that one’s true, too.

Gendry’s got his own scars too, although his aren’t anywhere near as exciting. Burns from the forge over his knuckles, a jag over his knee from when he tried to help out the villagers with rebuilding a wall and a stone was sticking out. Little things. Nothing that speaks to adventures or great battles. Truth be told, he’s happy about that. He has his own home, his own people. It’s a good life, one he’s building for himself.

One day, he’s got light burn marks over his palms. He spends the day trying to figure out what they mean. Ropes, maybe. Or grabbing something too hot.

“Reins,” a voice says from the opening of the smithy the villagers let him borrow when Lording is too aggravating. “From riding horse.”

Gendry turns.

Arya Stark leans against the door, a small smile on her face and an eyebrow raised.


	10. you're not wearing that

“You’re not wearing that.”

He frowns, tugging on the collar of his leather armor. “Why not?”

Arya moves until she stands behind him. Then, feather-light, she presses two fingers to his side, one finger framing either side of a rib. “Here.”

Her other hand traces lightly over a spot on his back where he thinks his kidneys might be. “Here.” 

The fingers on his ribs drop, and one of them traces over his collarbone, giving him a little jolt. “Here.” And then a bigger jolt when it traces up the collar of his neck to the underside of his ear. “Here.”

Was he...  
Was he getting turned on by Arya touching all the places someone could kill him?

Her hand drops from his neck and slides down the back of his thigh. “Here, too.” Then moves up toward his in-seam.

...yes. Yes he was.

“Here.” Her thumb ghosts somewhere  _just_ over his hip and that’s enough of that.

Gendry’s nowhere near as fast as Arya, which is why he thinks she lets him grab her hand. He pulls her forward, and she’s too good to show surprise on her face but her eyebrows raise a little and whatever she reads on his expression.

“What’re you-?”

“Don’t ask,” he says, maybe a little hoarse, as he bends down to kiss her.


	11. murder grandpa

“He’s not going to kill her,” Arya says, suddenly at his side.

Gendry startles at her sudden appearance, still not used to how quiet she can be even after all these years. “Seven hells Arya-” then he blinks. “Why’d you go straight to murder?”

She follows his gaze across the courtyard. Outside the stables, a small girl with shaggy black hair snarls and swings a practice sword with pure fury. The Hound towers over her, the hand he has on the top of her head holding her in place as he yawns.

“If she doesn’t get hurt, she won’t learn,” Arya says with a shrug. “She should learn.”

Gendry agrees with this in theory, but when the Hound tosses his seven-year-old to the ground he, in practice, very much wants to slam the Hound’s head with his hammer. 

“Get up or good riddance.” His voice carries across the courtyard. “Because I’m fucking bored.”

“I’ll kill you!” His daughter screams, launching herself at him.

“This is your fault,” he says tensely. It’s only Arya’s hand on his arm that keeps him from charging over.

“That’s fine,” she says with an easy lift of her shoulder. “She should spend time with her namesake.”

Gendry looks down at her, eyes wide. “What?”

Arya raises her brows. “What?”

“You named our daughter after the fucking  _Hound_?”

“Who’d you think I named her after?” 

“Your sister!” 

“It can be both.”

“It shouldn’t!”

Arya rolls her eyes, then juts her chin at the fighting pair. “This is where it’s going to be good.”

The Hound’s pushed Sanna down to the ground for about the third time. He must really be getting bored, because he splays his arms out as wide as he can. “One hit,” he grunts. 

Gendry sees his daughter rush him, a blur of black hair and brown leathers. Then he watches, as Sanna lifts her leg-

-and kicks The Hound straight in the balls.

The Hound sinks to his knees. “Fucking cock sucking-!” 

Sanna looks over at them. Gives her dad a toothy smile and a wave. “Got him!”

“-sons of whoring cunts-”

Gendry gives a nod of approval. Maybe she is learning something.


	12. breaking the rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drabble dump wednesday, i guess :'D thank you for reading & commenting ilu all <3 !

“And where is the Lady Baratheon this evening?” 

Gendry’s doing his best not to nod off. These feasts are, hands down, the worst part of Lording. Half the night he has to count to ten to keep from punching the lot of them. The other half the night he’s drinking wine and just grumbling whenever anyone tries to talk to him. He’s starting to get a bit of a reputation for being unfriendly to the nobility, but that suits him just fine. Maybe it means they’ll stop showing up at Storm’s End.

“You mean Arya?”

The man from House Caron frowns. “...your wife?”

“That’s her.” Gendry rolls his shoulders, wishing he could sneak off and finish the armor set he’d been working on. He almost had the breast plate right. “I don’t know where she’s at-”

The man’s frown deepens.

“-I think the last raven I got was from Pentos.”

“ _Pentos_?”

Maybe he needed to temper the steel a little longer next time. The curvature of it didn’t fit right on him. The right side might’ve been a little thinner, too-

“My Lord?”

He tried not to let the annoyance sneak into his tone. Probably fails. “”What?”

“I asked if you were comfortable letting your wife... _travel_ without you.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.” Maybe he needed better ore, too, while he was at it-

“And when do you expect her to return?”

“When she wants.”

“A house needs the presence of its Lady,” he says, distinctly not approving.

Gendry sees he’s not going to get out of this conversation as easily as he wanted. He sighs, puts an elbow on the table.

“Lords leave their castles all the time, don’t they?” He tilts his head. “Doing war or being at King’s Landing or whatever else. Months or years at a time, right?” 

The man sputters. “But surely you must miss your wife-”

“Course I do. She misses me too. But she’s got work to do. So do I.” He pulls his chair out. “And I’d rather be doing that now, actually.”

The representative from House Caron is left to sputter behind him. Gendry makes a mental note to tell Davos to send him home with some wine.


	13. i am hers, i am his

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt: arya interrupts the wedding. lol pure crack

He feels sick to his stomach as the septon reads the words before him. To his side there’s a perfectly fine woman from a perfectly fine House in the Stormlands, but he can’t look at her. Instead he scowls at the toes of his boots, knowing he should care more but being unable to. 

“Father, Smith, Warrior-” wheezes the old man. 

His wife to be keeps trying to catch his eye, and he really should be nicer to her. It’s not her fault that he doesn’t want to do this. Gendry swallows, trying to fight down the grimace as he looks at her. 

A piece of his hair blows in a sudden wind.

“Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger-”

Something falls over his head. 

“The fuck-”

It’s a heavy fur, that smells like an unholy combination of sea brine and wet dog. Gendry sneezes into it, then pulls it off his head. 

Standing in between him and the woman who is to be his wife is Arya Stark. She’s panting, as if she’s just done a run. Behind her, the wife-to-be and septon exchange slow glances. The septon then sighs, slowly closing the book in his hand. It’s like he’s seen something like this before.

“What are you doing here?!” Gendry demands.

“What do you think?” Arya counters.

“I think you’re ruining my wedding!”

“No I didn’t.”

Gendry gestures to the woman, to the septon (who is now digging in his sleeve for something), then back to the woman. “What’s this, then?”

In return, Arya gestures to him, to the dead-dog-cape-thing in his hands, to the septon (who has found the flask he was looking for). “I gave you a cloak.”

“It smells!”

“So!”

“So I don’t want your smelly cloak-!” Gendry blinks. “Wait, what?”

Arya scowls at him, then turns to his wife to be. “Lady Cassandra?”

She nods.

Arya jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “I had to outrace the guard you came with to get here first. I think he’s waiting for you.”

Cassandra looks at the septon (who is unscrewing the cap to his flask), then bows in apology at Gendry. “My Lord, I’m-”

Gendry waves his hand. “Just go.”

She smiles and abruptly turns around, fleeing.

“There,” Gendry says, cross. “You’ve gone and scared off my wife. Happy now?”

“No.” She steps into Cassandra’s place. “Where were you?”

“What?”

“Stranger,” the septon suggests after he wipes wine off his face with the back of his hand.

“Okay, good.” Arya squares her shoulders. “I am his.”

Gendry’s jaw goes slack. “Are you-?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re-?”

“Yes. Hurry up and say your bit.”

“Um. Fuck. Uh. I am hers? From this day until another day?”

“Good enough,” the septon says, taking another pull of wine.

“Bend down,” Arya demands. He does so without really thinking about it, and she takes that gross adventure cloak out of his hands to drape it over his shoulders.

“This stinks.”

“I was sailing for a few months. Deal with it.” Arya turns to the septon. “Are we done?”

He’s hitting the bottom of his flask, trying to get a few more drops in. “Mhm.”

She frames his face with her hands, kisses him deeply, and Gendry supposes he’s married now.


	14. stick it to the rich people (modern au, criminals)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for adjectivebear's prompt "I'm only here to establish an alibi."
> 
> i might make this a verse because i like co-criminal couples i guess :'D

“I’m only here to establish an alibi.”   
  
Gendry slowly sets his keys on the counter. “But you look like you’re robbing me.”

Arya shoves up her ski mask. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes go to her (muddy) black trainers on his table, the canvas bag on the ground, and his unplugged television. “My eyes.”

“I’m not robbing  _you,_ stupid,” she says with a huff, leaning her head back on his couch. “No one even owns tube TVs anymore.”

“Then why’d you undo it?”

“Had to charge my phone.”

“There’s an outlet right behind-” he sighs. It’s not worth it. 

Instead, he kicks off his boots, walks in with his hands shoved into his pockets. It’d been a long day without Arya apparently turning his studio apartment into a den of illicit activity. Again. Gendry bows down to his mini fridge, where he withdraws two beers and uses the counter to pop the tops off. He sinks onto the couch beside her, hands her a beer. Her cheek rests on his shoulder and he kisses the top of her head.

“Who’d you actually rob, then?”

“Tywin Lannister.”

Gendry nods. “That’s a good one.” He pulls Arya into his lap--one, because it’s nice to have her there, but two to get her muddy shoes off his table. “I chopped his car a month back.”

“Fuck yes,” Arya says, clinking her bottle to his. “Stick it to the rich people.”


	15. don't look (star wars au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baby fic that got more angsty than intended :'|

She’s caught him looking again.

Across the hanger, Arya raises an eyebrow while Gendry holds her gaze for another moment before silently returning to the repairs on the ship. It’s been years since they were on the run in Coruscant’s Under City, doing their best to avoid Republic Security Forces and their new Chancellor Cersei Lannister.

Then he’d joined up with a smuggling ring, and Arya had gone…somewhere. 

She walks up to him, arms folded casually in the sleeves of her robes. Naturally, the third-rate cargo hauler he’s been barely maintaining chooses that moment to lose a foil. With a bit of a smirk, she easily dodges the piece of metal as it clangs to the floor in front of her.

“Don’t you have the Force telling you not to run under a ship?” He asks hotly, trying to hide his embarrassment. 

He remembers the old Arya, before the Jedi got a hold of her. The one who would’ve laughed and thrown something at him. 

This Arya just gives him a small smile before asking: “When will we be ready to fly?”

Gendry just snorts, picking up the plasma torch yet again. “We’ll get going. Can’t keep  _Jedi_ waiting.”

He feels her eyes on him, but he tells himself not to move. Just to stare ahead, grip the torch a little harder, and not feel anything he shouldn’t be feeling anymore. Everyone knew the Jedi didn’t do that. Didn’t…

He hears her little sigh, the muted clank of her lightsaber against her belt, then her boots echoing across the grated floor.

Gendry clenches his jaw. He’s not going to look anymore. 


	16. spectator sport (renfest au)

Tom tried to keep any extra tension out of his arms and shoulders as he struck the anvil before him. 

“That’s not how he should do it,” came the judgmental voice of the customer who had been critiquing him for the past forty-five minutes. 

Tom shot him a glare of his shoulder. The big guy with a buzz cut only crossed his arms over his chest. Beside him, a short woman who was clearly his girlfriend bit into a roasted turkey leg.

“If he’s going to practice he should do it right,” she agreed.

Tom glared back at the horseshoes he was trying to make.

 _This is just an internship,_ he reminded himself.  _Just a-_

“That’s uneven,” the man said again. 

Tom tried to count to ten.

“Now it’s going to get worse,” the man informed his girlfriend.

Tom’s face fell into his hands.

“Him standing like that is a safety hazard, right?” The girlfriend chimed in.

He hated these customers. So much.


	17. the jeep (zombie apocalypse au)

She watches without watching: the dirty flannel being shoved up past his elbows once the cuffs get caught one too many times under the hood of their jeep that is slowly falling apart. His forearms flex with strain as he pries apart belts and whatever other parts are failing. Steam rises, and that with the sun makes sweat bead on his forehead and roll down his neck, getting caught in the front of his stained tank top.

After a few rounds of swearing to himself, he throws down the wrench in frustration.

“Well. This is Fucked,” he tells her, defeated and shoving his hands in his pockets as he looks up at the wide sky.

She doesn’t answer. Just sits on the bench, watching her boots kick out. Back and forth.

“Arya?”

She must not have said anything for awhile. Numbly she looks up, surprised to see that he’s already in front of her.

“You need to stop somewhere?” He asks, blue eyes scanning her face with concern.

Yesterday, she had to shoot her mother.

Arya swallows. Voice comes out raspy. “No.”

Gendry frowns. His hands fall from her shoulders. “…let me know when you do.”

She nods. When she blinks for too long she sees it: grey skin, filmy eyes. Hands reaching, getting tangled in her hair that she sheared off immediately after.

After.

Gendry spits out gasoline, running the tube from the jeep into a red canister–siphoning. When he’s done, he lifts it up with one hand, and hooks the other arm around her waist, helping her walk.

“Not far from the Vale now,” he mutters, even though they both know they are.

Arya sighs, resting her head against him as they go–their joined shadows seeming too far ahead.


	18. A-R-Y-A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the 3 sentence meme, gendrya + soulmates

“I don’t know why you’re upset about Ned, Gendry.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Then why’d you crush the beer can in your hand when he asked me out?”

“Felt like it.”

“You did not.”

“You don’t know what I felt like.”

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. Soulmate, remember?”

“…”

“What’s with the stupid look?”

“…”

“You know we’re soulmates, right?”

“Don’t just go saying that because I’m mad. That’s not right of you.”

“I have your name tattooed on my arm!” 

“Well, yours isn’t on mine!”

“It’s right there! A-R-Y-A-!”

“Your name’s Arry!”

“…”

“Oh. Yeah. I hear it now.”

“Stupid moron.”


End file.
